


so do our minutes hasten to their end

by orphan_account



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: ...to an extent?, Angst, Deliberately Confusing Narrative, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Really Character Death, Romance, Someone give them a hug, Time Loop, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, Tragic Romance, also: some tags are left out so that the plot isn't spoiled, but there should be nothing triggering, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22816315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: His castle threatens to fall apart around him. Guanheng has never been stronger than he is now.
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Wong Kun Hang | Hendery, Wong Kun Hang | Hendery/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	so do our minutes hasten to their end

Invisible hands drape velvet over his shoulders. The material is soft, the weight heavy. Reaffirming, grounding. Guanheng adjusts the edges of his cloak with an odd ease, an odd simplicity to the way he adjusts black over auburn. His pulse is embroidered on the fringes of the cloaks; his heartbeat is warm inside his blood.

Lightning splits the sky into pieces, a whorl of light crackling apart like splintered wood. He tilts his head, looks out at the sky. Rain lashes against the stained-glass panes and pounds against the old stonework. Thunder howls in the distance. His castle threatens to fall apart around him. Guanheng has never been stronger than he is now.

The first of the knocks comes as the clock chimes six. It is already dark outside. The sky is screaming.

Guanheng plays the perfect host. He smiles, greets each guest with a kind voice, a gentle lilt to his honeyed words. He shows each one to the ballroom, cloak draped over his arm as he bows to them; he returns to the door, and ice pools in the hollow column of his throat.

The boy in forest silks smiles at him. Poison curls at the edges of his smile, but it’s a nice smile. A nice poison, perhaps ─ would it kill him to drink up the taste? Forest silks press up against the edges of the velvet. An arm loops around the curve of his elbow. Guanheng lets himself be pulled away.

“Hello, darling,” murmurs Dejun. He presses the words against the expanse of his collarbone, a hand pulling at the buttons. One, two. Guanheng shivers, leans in close. His heart drums out a syncopated rhythm. 

This moment is off beat. This moment is a space between seconds, where Guanheng can indulge himself in the cold thrill of their reunion. He shudders. Dejun’s breaths are warm against the line of his collarbone.

Laughter. A soft huff of breath, moving up from the lines to the map of his throat. “It has been a long time, has it not?” Dejun moves slightly, nose pressing against the join of neck and torso. His skin is icy cold ─ his lips are dark with the poison he carries.

Guanheng sighs, breathes out. “It has, my dawn.” He presses in close, two fingers against Dejun’s pulse, heart beating too heavy against the cage of his ribs. Dejun’s pulse is a waltz on the outskirts of forest green silks, as he rests his palm against the small of Guanheng’s back.

Dejun leads. He follows. Now the music changes, to a waltz in A minor. Now Dejun is a guiding force, leading him in gentle steps around the ballroom. Now Guanheng is reduced to a follower, powerless in his own home. 

Now they are elsewhere. The waltz guides Dejun. He follows an invisible beat, gentle and hesitant, through hallways and up stairs and into the private room which he uses for himself. The portrait on the walls glares down at him.

Here they are ─ here, in this empty, abandoned room, the portrait of a forlorn and forsaken god peering down upon him. Here Guanheng is, his very presence a blemish upon this god’s room. Here is Dejun, his words coated in poison.

There are no gods here. Not anymore.

Dejun sighs. Swallows. Kisses him, slow and sweet, like this is the last time they will ever speak. “My dear,” he hums against him, “please ─ forgive me ─” the words are sweet and dying and desperate.

Guanheng sits. Cloak removed, draped over his seat, auburn facing out, the pulsing embroidery slower and longer than before. His pulse, slowed. A pulse, any pulse, immortalised in golden thread. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” whispers Dejun. His eyes are wide and fearful. Does he regret what he has done?

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, the words a prayer against his lips. “I didn’t mean to ─ Guanheng, please, you have to trust me. I didn’t mean to.” Now, the silence is overwhelming.

Guanheng laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs. Poison is dripping into his lips, a steady feed of toxins into the aches of his bones. “I hate you,” he says, the words ringing heavy with truth. “I thought that I could love you, Dejun. I thought that you were ─ I thought that I could trust you.”

Dejun cries. His eyes are damp with tears, his lips are coated in poison. His words are soaked in honey, even as he begs for forgiveness. Guanheng cannot find it in himself to care. He laughs, two fingers against his neck, and the pulse stops. Everything ─ stops.

Now the waltz is playing in his ears, not Dejun’s. He is the lead. His feet move too quickly ─ the tempo too fast, too slow, too much a contradiction for Guanheng to fully comprehend. Now Dejun is restricted to following, the poison gone from his lips, the guilt gone from his tongue.

Guanheng is dressed in auburn silks and, across the room from him, there is a boy with a blood red shirt and a smile with too many teeth.

Now there is a nocturne playing. The harvest moon swells in the night sky, reflections distorted. Rain drips over the moon. It bleeds, orange and red dripping down the sky; Guanheng lifts a hand, and blood drips from an unseen wound. The nocturne will sing him to sleep.

He approaches. Murmured words flicker into the boy’s ears; he looks up, hums quietly, soft kiss on Guanheng’s cheek. A sliced wound over cheekbones, over jaws; a wound that has closed over, a fine line of blood on the collarbone. He trails kisses over the line even as it closes up.

“Yangyang,” Guanheng breathes against the neckline. Thunder howls outside. The sky is cracked and bleeding lightning. “Come. I have much to show you.” Yangyang nods. His shirt is covered by black roses, trailing over the shoulders. The thorns prick at his fingers.

The nocturne carries them. Repeated melodies, descending phrases, Yangyang’s foot tapping to a melody that he should not hear. I’m sorry, whispers Dejun’s voice. The castle’s halls are filled with ghosts.

He imagines a harp, being plucked gently. The strings are manipulated with an ease that he can never have for himself; Yangyang looks up at him, his smile a thing that should not exist. He should not exist.

**_NONE OF THIS SHOULD BE REAL ─_ **

A breath. Yangyang kisses the edge of his mouth. Relax. Velvet carpets underfoot, rain lashing against the windows. He leads them in circles, through empty corridors and into that last, empty room.

The portrait is of Dejun. His eyes are an unearthly green, his smile tinged with poison. Flames lick at Guanheng’s heart. Are they for Yangyang? Or Dejun? He doesn’t know. The portrait is of a remembered god.

“None of this is right,” whisper the ghosts. “Do not forget what you chose to do.”

The pulse slows to nothing. It resumes, and Guanheng does not remember.

-

each changing place with that which goes before,

in sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

**Author's Note:**

> twt @ phantomhwa
> 
> the only thing i can write anymore is time travel hurt no comfort fics,, if you enjoyed this go read one of my other fics which has the same plot lol <3 i hope u enjoyed this!! please point out any flaws/anything u enjoyed in the comments. ilu!


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